“Yes, ma’am. May I come in?”
“Dead?”
“Yes, Mrs. Tufts. Your husband is dead.”
“I . . .” She began to close the door, then appeared to catch herself and looked up at him. Her expression was one of confusion and shock, but no grief. At least not yet.
“Ma’am, if you’d allow me to come in, I can get you a cup of coffee or tea and tell you more about your husband.”
“He didn’t come home last night,” she said, more to herself than to Adam. “He always comes home. He can’t be dead.” Her voice spiraled up a little as her southern accent became even more pronounced. “Mah Pahney can’t be dead.”
“Ma’am?” He didn’t feel right about standing on her front stoop and telling her that her husband had been found hanging in the Capitol Rotunda. “Could I come in, Mrs. Tufts?”
She blinked up at him as if just seeing him for the first time. “What did you say was your name?”
“Adam Quinn.”
“Do you know mah husband? Why are you here?”
“No, ma’am. I never met him.” Despite his best efforts, the conversation was obviously going to continue here, practically on the street. “I was called to the Capitol Building this morning, which is where he was found.”
“What happened to him?” Her voice was tight and unsteady and grief was beginning to build in her eyes.
“Mrs. Tufts, please. I reckon it would be better to tell you about this inside, in private. May I come in?”
She moved back wordlessly and he was finally able to step into the house. Though intent on the new widow, Adam noted the spare simplicity of the front room where he stood—for there was no grand entrance where a butler would greet a visitor as there had been at Custer Billings’s house. Yet the furnishings in the Tufts home were comfortable and well-made, and the walls were covered with modern wallpapering. His impression was that the Tufts were neither wealthy nor struggling financially; they lived a modest but comfortable life.
He could see the kitchen and smelled meat roasting in the oven. The pungent scent of lye soap and the wet stains on her apron suggested Mrs. Tufts might have been doing laundry when he interrupted her—which probably meant no servants or slaves.
Mrs. Tufts had begun to sob silently, and she stood on the center of the rag rug looking lost. Her blond hair showed no signs of gray, and it was smoothed into a neat knot at the back of her head. Her face was round and firm with a myriad of dimples that appeared near her mouth whenever she spoke.
Still holding the two hats, Adam took her soft, pillowy arm and gently guided her to a walnut armchair upholstered in creamy brocade. “Is there someone I can send for to stay here with you, Mrs. Tufts? A friend, a family member? Does anyone else live here with you? Any children? Servants?”
“No, it’s just me and Piney. Our children are grown. We used to have a housekeeper, but we sold her.”
“Is there anyone I can send for, Mrs. Tufts?” Adam was a patient man under most circumstances, including this one, but he felt as if he’d been swimming upstream and going nowhere for quite a while. Still, the woman had just lost her husband. He allowed she had the right to dither and go absent.
“My—my daughter, Priscilla. She and her husband live on Fourteenth Street. Howard Melvis. But she’s got the baby. Oh, what’s Pris going to say? Her daddy’s dead!” She burst into loud tears. Adam set the hats down on the table and fished a handkerchief out of his pocket.
He’d only recently begun to carry one he wouldn’t be ashamed to offer a woman, instead of the raggedy cloth he’d previously tucked in his pocket. There weren’t too many times he’d needed a fine handkerchief on the frontier, but things were different here. “Mrs. Tufts, I’m so sorry for your loss. I have more to tell you about Pinebar, but I’m going to find someone to fetch your daughter for you, all right, then? I’ll be right back.”
She sniffled and sobbed a response that he took as an affirmative, and Adam hurried out the front door. He reckoned he could ask one of the neighbors to send for Priscilla Melvis, but before he could decide which house to approach, he heard a familiar voice.
“Mr. Quinn! Mr. Quinn!”
What luck. Adam waved to the young boy who was running—as he often did—down the street toward him. Today he didn’t have the hen Bessie tucked under his arm—which was unusual—and for once the child seemed to be wearing trousers that were neither too short nor too long for him.
Brian Mulcahey’s boots slapped onto the ground as he roared to a halt next to Adam. The lanky twelve-year-old was barely breathing hard, though his milk-white cheeks were flushed pink beneath maple syrup freckles. His brown hair had a slight reddish hue in the July sun and, like Adam’s, it needed a good trim. The boy reminded him so much of his younger brother Danny, though Danny was nearly eighteen by now and had gone off to California. Adam hadn’t seen him for almost seven years.
“Dr. Hilton said as I should see if ye were needing any help, Mr. Quinn,” Brian told him with an Irish lilt. His missing tooth had grown back in, eliminating most of the lisp he’d had previously. “He sent me off and I was about following you till you turned off by the market and got lost in the crowd. Then I been walking up and down the street lookin’ for ye, and then here you were, coming on out of this house.”
“It’s good to see you, young Brian,” Adam said, reaching out to tousle the mop of hair that was suddenly much closer to his chin than it had been two months ago. “I reckon if you keep growing as fast as you’ve been, you’ll be taller than Mr. Lincoln by the time you’re thirteen. And that’d make you the tallest man in Washington.”
“Even taller than you?” Brian straightened up as much as he could.
“That’d be right.”
The boy grinned, fairly dancing with glee. “Gor! Then I could maybe be meeting Mr. Lincoln sometime, then, couldn’t I? And me mam says she can’t keep me in trousers more’n a week at a time, I’m growin’ so fast. It’s a lucky thing Dr. Hilton’s got some patients who were outgrowing their pants. He gave’em to me for doing some chores for him. Gor . . . Mr. Quinn, did you know he’s got a saw? To cut bones?” His eyes were wide.
Despite the reminder of his own shattered bone being cut by a saw, Adam thought it was like a breath of fresh air to see the boy after the chore of giving Mrs. Tufts the bad news about her husband. Still, Adam’s discussion with her wasn’t finished and he didn’t want to leave her alone any longer than necessary. “You can tell me all about it later, Brian. Right now I need you to go fetch a woman named Priscilla Melvis, over on North Fourteenth Street. Find her and tell her that her mama needs her and to come as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Quinn!” The boy flew off as if he had wings on his feet, reminding Adam how energetic he himself had been at that age.
Back inside the house, Adam found Mrs. Tufts standing in the kitchen. “I wanted some coffee,” she said, looking at him through eyes glassy with tears.
The kettle was on the stove and steam roared from its spout, but she didn’t seem aware of it. This time, Adam helped her to one of the ladder-backed chairs at the eating table and set about pouring coffee into a pretty china cup she’d put out for that purpose. Without asking, he added a healthy dose of sugar to the drink—it was better than whiskey, at least this early in the day, he reckoned, though probably more expensive—and brought her the cup.
“Mrs. Tufts, are you ready to hear about what happened to your husband?” He considered pouring himself a coffee but didn’t feel right about digging around for another cup. Instead, he pulled up another chair and sat across from her at the small round table.
“Yes, I-I think so. What was your name again? I’m sorry, I’m just so . . .” She sniffled and mopped her eyes with his handkerchief.
“My name is Adam Quinn, and you don’t need to apologize. I’m so sorry to bring you such terrible news.”
“What happened to my Piney? Please tell me.” She sipped the coffee, her eyes widening perhaps becaus
e of the large amount of sugar. But she took another drink as if to fortify herself, and Adam began to speak.
“Your husband was found hanging from the crane in the middle of the Capitol Building Rotunda,” he said, knowing it was best to speak quickly and plainly.
Mrs. Tufts gasped and the cup rattled onto the table, slopping coffee all over. “Hanging? By his—by his neck?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Adam hesitated, unsure how to ask the next important question.
“But . . . how? Why?” Her eyes filled with tears again.
“That’s what I’m going to try and figure out, Mrs. Tufts. So I need to ask you some questions—some difficult questions. Forgive me if they seem intrusive.” He wished again for coffee, and, fleetingly, for the presence of Miss Gates and her pragmatic self. She’d know how to handle Mrs. Tufts sensitively. “How was your husband acting lately? Did he seem different? Or upset about anything? Sad?”
“No, no . . . not upset or—you’re not suggesting Piney did that to himself, are you? Why, he would never do such a thing. Not my Piney. Why, that’s an awful thing to suggest, Mr. Quinn.” Her eyes flashed with hurt and fury. “Mah husband didn’t do that to himself, Ah’ll tell you plain as day.”
“Yes, ma’am. I understand, and I apologize for upsetting you. I don’t reckon he did that to himself either, Mrs. Tufts, and so now I want to find out who did. Is this your husband’s hat?” He showed her the bowler that Miss Gates had found, but hesitated to hand it over in case she saw the blood on it.
Mrs. Tufts nodded immediately. “Y-yes. Yes, it is.”
“All right. Thank you. I reckon I might need to keep it for a little while longer—but I’ll get it back to you, along with—with everything else of his—as soon as I can.” In order to forestall any questions she might have about why he needed it or why she couldn’t have her husband’s property right away, he continued. “Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt your husband, Mrs. Tufts? Anyone who had a grudge or any problems with him?”
He was watching her closely, and that was how he saw the flicker in her eyes—just a brief flash of something like fear or worry—before she looked down at her coffee. “I-I can’t think of anyone who didn’t like Piney. He was a good man, a hard worker, and he never bothered anyone.”
“He worked at the Patent Office, I’m told. Four years now. Did he get along with the others there?”
“ ’S far as I know he did.” She shifted restlessly in her chair and wouldn’t meet his eyes. “He was one of the assistant examiners—he was hoping to get the next examiner’s job that came around. He loved working there. Said it was always so interesting to see how peoples’ minds worked, and the inventions they made. He would spend hours looking through all of the old patents and playing with the models, and he loved all of it.”
“I can imagine that would be interesting. Were there any patents that Mr. Tufts worked on that weren’t approved? And maybe the inventor was angry about it?”
“Oh, that happened all the time that a patent didn’t get approved,” she replied. “And of course the inventor would get their dander up and maybe write a letter or even come in and argue about it. But hardly ever did they get so mad. And Piney was only an assistant examiner, and so it wasn’t him who made the final decision. So if someone was angry, they’d be angry with the top examiner, you know.”
“And you don’t know of any situation where a patent applicant was angry and holding a grudge?” She shook her head, her eyes clear and steady. Adam hesitated, then pressed on. “Mrs. Tufts, I imagine this is very difficult for you, but if you have any ideas or thoughts about this—or if you know of anything unusual that seemed to be affecting your husband or his mood recently, I need to know. He’s dead, and very likely someone killed him. I need to find out why, so I can find out who.”
A sigh burst from her and she wrapped her hands around the teacup. “I don’t know if this matters, but all of a sudden, he had some extra money. It started about the end of May, a little bit of extra money. Then about two weeks ago, and then last week again. He said we’d be able to buy or rent a housekeeper again soon, and he was looking at a pair of horses so we could get a new carriage. He was going to take me up and down the Avenue whenever I wanted, he told me, and even said that I could have some new frocks.”
“Do you have any idea where he got this extra money?”
She shook her head. “When I asked him, he just smiled and said everything was going to be just fine, and that I shouldn’t worry. He was being careful, he told me.” She lifted her eyes to him at last. “‘Being careful,’ that’s what he said. I didn’t know what he meant by that.”
Adam didn’t either, but he reckoned it was a strange choice of words.
But apparently, Pinebar Tufts hadn’t been careful enough.
CHAPTER 3
Sophie was a trifle irritated that Mr. Quinn hadn’t taken up her offer to help him interview people who might know something about Piney Tufts, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t help on her own. After all, as a journalist, she was experienced at taking interviews and gathering information from people. However, the exasperation she felt about him declining her help was alleviated by the fact that he hadn’t wanted Constance Lemagne and her sketchbook involved either.
Although she’d begun the day planning to listen to the Senate debate their absent members, the attraction of that now paled in comparison to working on the puzzle of Mr. Tufts’s murder. Still, Sophie made a point of accompanying Constance to the gallery and getting settled there. Maybe she’d learn something else about Mr. Tufts—such as why and how he’d been inside the Capitol at night.
It had to have been at night, hadn’t it? He’d obviously been dead for a while—and then there was the hat she’d found with his blood on it. What was a man like him—who worked in the Patent Office—doing in the Capitol so late at night?
“Mrs. Greenhow!” Constance had tucked away the satchel with her sketchbook and just finished arranging her skirts over the chair when she sprang back to her feet, waving at the woman dressed in mourning gray with black trim.
Sophie was interested in the newcomer in spite of herself, for she certainly had heard of the Washington socialite and her well-attended salons. Rose Greenhow was older than she’d anticipated—in her late forties—and although she was fashionably attired and carried herself with confidence, she wasn’t the stunning beauty Sophie had imagined when she thought of a popular society queen.
“Good morning, Constance. How kind of you to save me a seat.” The older woman looked at Sophie curiously. “Is this a friend of yours?”
“Yes, indeed. May I present Miss Sophie Gates, Mrs. Rose Greenhow.” Constance’s introduction was as proper and smooth as could be, but the moment after Sophie and her friend acknowledged each other, she launched into an excited description of what had occurred that morning. “Did you hear about the dead man in the Rotunda? Sophie and I were there when he was discovered hanging from the machine in the middle of the room! I declare, I can scarcely imagine how or why someone would do such a thing!”
Mrs. Greenhow listened with rapt interest and proper horror, then, dividing her attention between the two of them, asked, “Do you know who it was?”
“His name was Pinebar Tufts,” Sophie told her. “Apparently, he worked at the Patent Office.” That was convenient—she could ask Miss Barton, who also worked there, if she knew anything about the man. Mr. Quinn might not agree with Sophie’s assessment that Mr. Tufts was murdered, but she didn’t doubt her own conclusion for a moment.
They weren’t the only ones gossiping. News of the dead man had spread, and Sophie caught many snatches of conversation about it as they waited for the senators and their aides to enter the chamber below. She sat quietly, listening for anything that might be relevant, but was doomed to disappointment when the conversations tended more toward the sensationalism of the event than anything of substance, and then went on to frustration and conjecture about why hadn’t McDowell do
ne anything yet? Everyone, it seemed, was expecting an announcement anyday that the troops would be leaving for Richmond.
Drat. So much for wasting her time here.
Even Constance and Mrs. Greenhow had moved on from the topic of Pinebar Tufts and were talking about a big wedding that seemed to be imminent.
“Oh, look! And there’s Mr. Monroe right there,” Constance said, tugging at Sophie’s sleeve as she looked down into the gallery. “He’s the father. He knows everyone in Congress, doesn’t he, Mrs. Greenhow?”
“He has quite a bit of influence,” agreed Mrs. Greenhow in a throaty voice.
“And Miss Monroe—the one who’s getting married—just returned from New York City with her dress,” Constance continued to Sophie. “They had to have a special stand-up trunk made in order for it to fit inside without being crushed!” She turned to Sophie, her eyes dancing. “It’s going to be the biggest wedding of the summer—surely you’ve heard about it. Felicity Monroe—she’s Miss Corcoran’s best friend and some distant cousin of the Monroes, you know—is marrying Carson Townsend, of the Richmond Townsends, the big milling family. They’ve got mills in Baltimore and Arlington. Her daddy knows absolutely everyone, and Mr. Townsend is filthy rich and horribly handsome. I’m simply frothing for an invitation, but I hardly know Miss Monroe.”
Sophie, who’d had her fill of society gatherings, formal attire, and gossip when she lived in New York and was engaged to Peter Schuyler, could care less about such an event. Especially since there was a war upon them, and important work to be done for the troops.
Still, she couldn’t subdue a small niggle of interest simply because descriptions of that sort of event were the type of journalism normally relegated to female writers—and since she’d thus far had no success getting stories about serious things like preparations for war or living in Washington during the early days of Mr. Lincoln’s presidency published, she couldn’t dismiss the possibility of such a story idea out of hand. If she could get even one story published in the Times or the Post, that could help with future, less-frivolous dispatches.
Murder at the Capitol Page 4